The Good Fight
by 1000 paper cranes
Summary: Ron has a secret that he believes neither Hermione nor Harry could understand. That is, until Harry finds a beaten child in Charlie's old armoire... and another secret, a thousand times more important than Ron's own, is revealed.


(Disclaimer: I don't own Harry and Co.)

Ron climbed up the stairs of the Burrow somewhat discontentedly. He was glad his best mate was here, he repeated quietly to himself, he truly was. But the words had a dead feel to them, a false ring in his head. For if what he told himself was true, why was Ron feeling so neglected and alone? He loved Harry like a brother… but so did the rest of his family. Dad would be ambushing Harry in what Ron considered a sad attempt to learn more about muggle electronics. Mum would be alternating between screaming at the twins and trying to ram as much of her cooking down the Boy-Who-Lived gullet as possible, even when he repeatedly insisted he was full and would go green at the grotesque sizes of the meals the Weasley brothers devoured. Fred and George themselves would be holed up in a corner somewhere, whispering to each other and stopping abruptly when another member of the family attempted to eavesdrop. Ron had finally given up on them, after trying for ages to discover their secret when they had first begun this mode of behavior, some time after the Triwizard. Of course, the wonderful, fabulous Harry was let into their pow-wow sessions the moment he walk in the door- after all, it was easy to deny something to their nondescript, flesh-and-blood brother Ron Weasley, but heaven forbid _Harry Potter_ be out on their plans. Percy didn't count, as he never had time for anyone, and Ginny, although she had taken admirable strides in suppressing her unrequited crush, was still too enraptured by a certain famous someone to respond properly when spoken to. At least she kept her elbow out of the butter dish.

It's not like he could really begrudge his best mate; he wasn't _trying_ to steal his family. Quite the opposite, in fact. Harry was constantly trying to stay out of the way of the Weasleys and watch their interactions from some quiet shadow, a behavior only Ron seemed to find any significance in. The rest, as soon as they noticed a bob of raven hair was missing from the sea of red, would find Harry and pull him back into the center of the room, laughing at some joke cracked by the irrepressible twins. Harry was clearly uncomfortable with the amount of attention he was getting, but this did little to quell Ron's sense of bitter jealousy. He would watch Harry's uneasiness from an overstuffed armchair in the corner, away from the Weasley mob. He was never pulled back into the fray, though; he was just an extra redhead. Absent of Ginny's charm or the twin's charisma, it was easy to forget about him.

Ron sighed. Was he really so awful for his envy? Harry had everything he had ever wanted: attention (to step out of the shadow of six other siblings!), money (to wear a pair a clothes that hadn't been handed down from two brothers before, to own something that was crisp and new!), even a star position on Griffindor's Quiddich team, Ron's favorite sport in the world and lifelong obsession …Ron had actually confessed this all to Harry once, disguising it at a joke to test Harry's reaction. Even now Ron scoffed at his answer.

A mist had covered Harry's eyes, a veil of past remembrances, and he had replied with an impossible mix of resignation and passion that would give it all to him, Ron… to have his family.

"Some family," he muttered. "They don't even notice when I enter a room."

The sky was still an inky violet-black when Ron rose, the horizon devoid of the beacon light that would set off the roosters in the backyard. He changed and stretched, sliding out of room and into the halls of a silent Burrow with practiced grace seemingly out of character for the normally clumsy boy. Ron smiled softly to himself. He loved the mornings, the one time of that day he could have to himself.

But his smile faded to a frown when he heard the distant patter of bare feet on an unforgiving wooden floor. It was a unique sound, one that couldn't be imitated by the household ghoul. No, someone was up with him; someone was forcing Ron to give up time of reflection. He silently crept down the hall to observe the actions of the intruder.

The noise was drifting from the last room down the hall, Charlie's old room, which had been cleaned up for Harry's arrival. Ron closed his eyes in despair. Would he ever be free of the shadow of another? Was it really all that much to ask?

The door was cracked; Ron peered in. Harry was still in the clothes he had worn the evening he arrived, and the purple crescents under his eyes seemed to be illuminated by some eerie glow cast by the moonlight. Apparently Harry had never gone to bed.

He continued to pace, emerald eyes glassy with exhaustion. It was an easy task: the room was essentially bare except for an old iron-frame bed and antique armoire. Ron had always… disliked that particular piece of furniture.

When he was four, the twins had locked him in there, thinking it some great practical joke. Ron had screamed and screamed, but his small voice wasn't loud enough to penetrate the thick wood door and travel down the stairs. He had been trapped there, crying, for hours, until Mum had called for dinner and noticed that her youngest son hadn't come tumbling down the stairs. His four-year-old self had never seen his mother in such a righteous rage when she found out who had forced the now quivering, tear-stained boy into the armoire.

The whole experience had left him somewhat traumatized, and with a newfound sense of claustrophobia.

He had never told anyone this, though, even his closest friends. Hermione would respond in the way she knew best: by pulling out books related to the subject at hand. Ron could see, in his mind's eye, a misty version of the brown-haired girl lecturing from a book on facing irrational fears. And his other friend, Harry, was just so…._Harry._ How could he possibly understand what it was like to be locked inside a closet, how it felt to be swallowed up by the darkness? To be trapped in your own coffin?

The memory had, for the most part, passed from the family consciousness. It was still there, of course, somewhere in the background, a memory that would make Mum's cheeks flush with old anger and the now repentant twins pour out heartfelt apologies, but they all had moved on and all that visibly remained was Ron's dislike of Charlie's room.

So when he heard the sound of muffled fists pounding from the inside of the armoire, his face turned pale.

Harry jerked to a stop, spinning around to face the armoire at a half crouch. Slowly he made his way towards that end of the room. The pounding grew louder; the seconds seemed to stretch as his fingers curled around the handle and drew the door open.

Ron's breath caught in his throat.

Out of the armoire tumbled the mangled, panting body of a child.

His face was hidden by a mass of oily black hair, but the torment and abuse he had endured was blatant anyways: he wore only a pair of ill-fitted ebony trousers, already threadbare and tainted with blood, and he shivered compulsively, feverishly. His exposed back was mess of torn flesh, caked and new blood, and deep purple bruising the thickness of a leather belt.

Harry's face turned white, a paleness that rivaled the child's own sallow complexion. He tried to speak, but failed, managing only to choke out a "you…I…" before he slid to his knees, wand slipping from lax fingers. "Of course…" he murmured.

Ron watched from the shadows, bewildered. How did Harry know this child? How did this boy end up in Charlie's unused closet? And why had Harry reacted to his presence with such… apprehension?

The child, noticing Harry for the first time, backed into the opposing wall, cowering. "No, no, please don't hurt me, I'll be good, please, please," he rasped in desperation, bracing himself for a blow.

Harry trembled, then took a fortifying breath. "I… I won't hurt you," he whispered.

"promise?"

He took a gulp of air. "promise."

The child stared at Harry for a moment, as if summing up the danger Ron's friend posed should he break his vow. Harry silently met his gaze.

Finally the child let out a wail and launched himself into Harry's arms. "I try so hard to be good! I don't wanna be bad, I don't, but Sir never believes me and he Punishes me for being such a bad boy!" A dry cough escapes his lips. "I deserve it, but it hurts…so much…"

Harry's chin rested upon the child's head, and he held the child as gently as he could to prevent aggravating his injuries while murmuring, "No. Sir is wrong. People love you, don't give up, don't give up."

This cryptic advice only increased Ron's confusion. He could feel his legs

tensing, preparing to slam his way through the door and offer the child the protection and care Harry had yet to offer. Something, however, prevented him from taking this course of action. There was some key to the puzzle of Harry's behavior, something missing that Ron was loathe to ignore. So he contented himself to letting Harry comfort the boy.

"No one loves me," the boy said, the despair evident in his voice. "How could anyone love me?"

Harry held the boy to him protectively. "They do," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "They do, they do."

"Good-for-nothing," the boy murmured to himself, reciting his various names. "Bastard, worthless, stupid child. Sir hates me, he hides me away. I'm not supposed to exist."

Something clicked into place. _Not supposed to exist_. Ron felt himself slide to the floor. The hatred, the greasy black locks- no. Just, no.

This child was not, could not, be a Snape.

Ron felt his hatred for the potions master increase by tenfold in revolt to his denial. How could anyone, even his foul professor, find it in themselves to beat a child no more than six?

The scene continued, oblivious to Ron's sudden burst of insight.

"No!" Harry whispered, desperation leaking into his plea. "Not anymore. You're not alone anymore."

"I'm always alone," the boy said, his voice becoming stronger and more mournful. "All of them… they're only pretending, just like I'm pretending. If they knew what I was, they'd despise me, pity me. You know that."

Harry stayed silent, simply holding the child and closing his eyes to block out the misery.

Ron felt his heart go out to the battered figure. If they knew who his father was… yes, there was pity for his condition, distrust for his heritage.

"You're right and you're wrong… they're not pretending," Harry said carefully, almost as if he were deciding this just now. "They love you. If they knew they're be pity and disgust, but… but they wouldn't leave. They wouldn't betray." His voice became decisive now. "You're not alone. Keep fighting."

"But… but giving up would mean no more pain," the child pleaded.

"Or just a different kind," Harry mused. His voice became stronger. "The fight is worth it; bear it for now. The hurt… the hurt is not forever."

"No!" the boy howled, "It follows me! I close my eyes and see His face! You know it! You know it! The weakness, the misery! None of them are, were, worth it! End it now!"

Harry became quiet. "No," he replied softly. "Their joy outweighs the anguish. The fight was good…." He paused.

"I don't fear you anymore," he told the child thoughtfully.

The boy, weakened by his outburst, begin to shiver.

"Go back to your closet," Harry smiled sadly, voice cracking a bit. "It's quiet. It's safe. I should know." He paused a moment. "This isn't forever."

Something snapped inside Ron at this declaration. Quiet? Safe? How more callous could his friend be, to tack on that phrase of false understanding? Could he not imagine what it was like to have those four walls closing in on you? How dare he send a beaten child back to that, through that, to a life of experiences a thousand times worse than Ron's weakest moments?

Harry rose to his feet and began to walk softly towards the door. He stopped and looked back at the boy hovering indecisively in front of the open armoire "Not much longer," he whispered. "Just a few more years of suffering. Be strong."

Harry turned to go through the doorway only to come face to face with a righteously enraged redhead.

"What are you doing?!" he screamed wildly at Harry. "How can you send that child back to hell?! What was that back there?!?"

Harry flinched before looking at Ron, face drained of emotion. "That," he said softly, weakly, "was…a boggart."

Ron looked over Harry's shoulder to the child, who was about to climb back into the armoire. Feeling the stare, he paused, and while turning to face Ron swept back his hair to meet his gaze.

Ron gasped and stumbled back when his eyes met dull emerald ones and a forehead marred by a small, jagged scar.


End file.
